Pepita the Pumpkin Seed and the Thanksgiving Harvest

In a paper envelope, on a dusty shelf in Farmer Rosa's barn, there lived a pumpkin seed named Pepita.

She was flat. She was pale. She was about the size of your littlest fingernail.

"I'm going to be a pumpkin," she told the other seeds. "A big orange one. With a curly stem."

The other seeds rattled in their envelopes. That's how seeds laugh.

"You're a seed," said a bean from the next envelope over. "Seeds don't DO anything."

Pepita did not like that bean.

Then, one spring morning, the envelope opened.

Light. Wind. A soft, furry paw.

And then...

Down.

Into the dark, crumbly soil.

PAT. PAT. Farmer Rosa, a rabbit with one floppy ear, patted the ground flat and hopped on to the next hole.

It was very quiet down there. It smelled like rain and old leaves.

"Hello?" said Pepita.

"Hello," said an Earthworm, wriggling past. He was clearly busy.

"This soil is full of good stuff," he said. "Old leaves, old roots. I chew it all up and make it better. You're welcome."

"What do I do now?" asked Pepita.

"You wait," said the Earthworm. "Seeds are very good at waiting."

Pepita was not very good at waiting.

But the rain came, and she soaked it up. The sun warmed the ground above her. Days went by. Lots of them.

And then something strange happened.

CRACK.

Her seed coat split open. A tiny white root wiggled down into the soil. A tiny green shoot pushed up toward the light.

Pepita was sprouting.

Scientists call this germination. It's a big word for a small seed, but she said it anyway. Ger-mi-na-tion.

Up she came, out of the ground.

Two round leaves opened like little hands.

"LOOK AT ME!"

The sun looked. The sun was very warm about it.

All summer, Pepita grew.

Her vine crept along the ground, one leaf, then ten, then more leaves than she could count. She tried. She got to forty-one and lost her place.

Big yellow flowers opened every morning and closed every afternoon.

BZZZZZ.

A fuzzy Bumblebee landed in one of the flowers and rolled around in it like it was a bath.

"Excuse me," said Pepita. "What are you doing in there?"

"Pollinating," said the Bumblebee, covered head to toe in yellow dust. "I carry pollen from flower to flower. No pollen, no pumpkins."

"Oh," said Pepita. "Thank you?"

"Don't mention it," said the Bumblebee, and flew off, a little wobbly.

Where that flower had been, a tiny green ball appeared.

It grew.

It grew some more.

By autumn it was round and orange, with a curly stem.

Exactly as promised.

"Told you," Pepita whispered. She hoped the bean could hear.

Then came the harvest.

Harvest is when farmers gather in the food they've grown, before the cold weather comes.

Farmer Rosa hopped along the rows with her two little bunnies and a wheelbarrow that squeaked on every turn. SQUEAK. SQUEAK. SQUEAK.

"This one!" said the smallest bunny, hugging Pepita's pumpkin with both paws. "It's perfect."

It had a dent on one side. It was still perfect.

At the Meadow Market, an old badger in a yellow hat picked it up and knocked on it. KNOCK KNOCK. This was Grandpa Badger.

"Sounds ripe," he said. "This one's for Thanksgiving pie."

His burrow kitchen was busy and steamy, and somebody was singing, not very well.

Grandpa Badger scooped out the pumpkin with his big digging claws and saved a handful of seeds. He laid them in a row on a towel by the window to dry.

"For next spring," he said.

That night the burrow filled right up. Badger cousins, the squirrels from next door, Auntie Hedgehog with a very big acorn casserole, and a baby mouse who only ate the whipped cream.

Around the table, everyone took a turn saying what they were thankful for.

"Farmer Rosa," said Grandpa Badger.

"The pie," said the smallest cousin.

Grandma Badger had read a lot of books in her armchair. She said that families all over the world have harvest festivals, to say thank you for the food.

In Korea, at Chuseok, families make little half-moon rice cakes called songpyeon.

In India, at Pongal, sweet rice is cooked until it bubbles right over the top of the pot, and that's a lucky thing.

In China, at the Mid-Autumn Festival, families share round mooncakes under the full moon.

"So everybody says thank you for food," said the smallest cousin, "just with different snacks?"

"Pretty much," said Grandma Badger.

Nobody thanked the Earthworm. Or the rain. Or the wobbly Bumblebee.

But maybe somebody should have.

Out in the field, Pepita's vine was brown and sleepy now. That's how pumpkin vines get in autumn. Her work was done.

And on Grandpa Badger's windowsill, in a neat row on a towel, forty-two brand-new seeds were drying in the moonlight.

The smallest one was already thinking it over.

"I'm going to be a pumpkin," she whispered.

Nobody laughed this time.